James Papastamos

Promises

A knife without a handle to
comfort, to convenience, a weary hand; the
Scent of love in the morning air
a rose garden mid desert sand

A lawn, freshly cut, its friendly blades
fading, somehow degrading, for want of rain; how absurd
Yellow with envy, yelling in anger
as nature had not kept its final word

A train that stops for no one
on tracks that trace our every step;
Poets, our tears to ink what mortal pen
doth beg for mercy, and cry for help

Listen to this poem:
Poem Submitted: Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Add this poem to MyPoemList

Rating Card

3,5 out of 5
1 total ratings
rate this poem

Comments about Promises by James Papastamos

There is no comment submitted by members..

Maya Angelou

Phenomenal Woman



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?